


Eventually They All Fall

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Challenge: Caffrey-Burke Day, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 17:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5057707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series: Peter Burke always wanted to take down Neal Caffrey - just never this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Treon for the beta.

     He stood atop the narrow railing of the iconic vermillion-orange bridge. His knees were locked and his hands were curled tightly around the twisted strands of metal that formed connecting cables to the towers above. He cursed how cold it was—colder than he ever expected San Francisco to be in June. The swirling crosswinds didn’t help matters. They whipped at his jacket and his pants legs and threatened to upset his precarious balance. He tried to compensate by leaning slightly backwards, and the knapsack aided just a bit with that maneuver. However, he couldn’t help himself; he had to look down and face where his intentions would eventually lead him. When he did dare to gaze below into the channel that connected the Bay with the Pacific Ocean, all that he saw were eddying grey currents whipping up frothy whitecaps that relentlessly churned.

     Suddenly, a brief and totally unexpected sensation of vertigo forced him to tear his eyes away and look up at the horizon. A deep breath helped, and he tried to concentrate on the scene before him. In the distance, he could make out the crumbling remnants of Alcatraz, the notorious federal prison that had housed the worst of the worst for thirty years. In its heyday, it had laid claim to the irredeemable likes of Al Capone, Robert Stroud, “Machine Gun” Kelly, and numerous others whose names he couldn’t recall at the moment. The con man wondered if he himself had been born in another era, would the Feds have declared that he was incorrigible, and brought him in chains to that famous fortress so near yet so far from the glamorous city across the water? The history books documented that no one had ever escaped from “The Rock,” so the inmates were doomed to stare at a place that they could never go.

     While the rigid figure remained lost in his musings, there was a continuous disruptive buzz of activity around him. The young thief made a determined effort to ignore the incessant demands and pleas. He knew that those fervent petitioners really didn’t care about him; they just didn’t want the onus of his death happening on their watch. He wondered if anyone would really mourn him if his body shattered after his descent. Certainly not family—that unit had come apart long ago, its pieces dispersed and forever hidden from him. If, by chance, either parent happened to hear of his tragic death, would they even know who it was that had died? He had been reincarnated with so many names along the way, would they realize that this was the son whom they had brought into the world when life was good?

     Well, that was ancient history, he thought cynically—water under the bridge—and wasn’t that a fitting metaphor! In spite of everything, he had survived. As a grifter and con artist, he had been taking care of himself for a long time and done pretty well, thank you very much. However, he wasn’t a fool. He knew that one day his luck would run out; he just hadn’t thought that it would be today. As always, he had meticulously planned for the unexpected, even though he was realistically aware of the huge margin for error when it could all go wrong. Now, here he was in this present dilemma. He momentarily closed his eyes to center himself. It all came down to a simple matter of waiting for that one special moment in time when he would soar off to meet his fate.


	2. Four Months Earlier In the Van

     Diana Berrigan was the newest member on Peter Burke’s White Collar team. She was an astute probie, who realized that she had to pay her dues doing boring scut work until she could prove her worth and be allowed to strut her stuff. Finally, after two months of tenaciously keeping her nose to the proverbial grindstone, Agent Burke had asked her to join him and Clinton Jones in the surveillance van. They would be staking out an apartment in Red Hook thought to be the hidey-hole of Jacob Neumann, a high-end fence for art masterpieces of questionable provenance.

     One week before, an Andrew Wyeth work, “Wind from the Sea,” had been stolen from the Metropolitan Museum of Art in Manhattan. It was just the sort of quality work that Neumann could discreetly off-load, quietly brokering a lucrative transaction that would satisfy a clandestine buyer as well as a brazen thief. Agent Burke suspected Neal Caffrey was that brazen thief, and this was the second day that the agents lurked, like spiders in a web, patiently waiting on Caffrey to make contact with the fence whom he had used in the past for just this sort of thing.

     It was a little after twelve noon when there was a determined knock on the side door of the van. Jones bounced up and opened the door to a pimply-faced kid balancing a huge pizza box and a large white bag in his hands. Jones adroitly relieved him of his burden with a grateful smile, and the kid turned away and vanished. Apparently, he had already received his tip. Diana watched as her boss tore off a piece of paper taped to the top of the pizza box. He scanned it for a second, and then threw it on the counter with a smirk.

     “I didn’t realize that you had called in a lunch order, Agent Burke,” Diana said tentatively as the mouthwatering aroma of oregano and tomato sauce permeated her nostrils. She wasn’t sure how this whole surveillance scenario worked just yet. Was a carryout lunch the norm?

     “Just tell me what my share of the tab is,” she said as she rummaged in her purse for her wallet.

     She heard Jones laugh. “Lunch is on Neal Caffrey today,” he informed her as he took a hefty bite of a pepperoni and sausage pizza slice. “This is his way of letting us know that he’s made us and won’t be showing up anytime soon.”

     “How can you be sure that Caffrey sent this,” Diana thought that her question was a legitimate one.

     Her boss snorted and handed her the slip of paper from the top of the pizza box that she had assumed was the receipt. She hastily scanned the words that were succinct and far from cryptic.

     “ _I know what you like, Agent Burke, but you’re playing Russian roulette with your arteries!” NC_

“Does he do this often?” Diana asked as she tried to wrap her head around this bizarre development.

     Jones answered for his boss. “He likes to taunt us, or at least Peter. Last month when we were keeping an eye out for him in downtown Manhattan, he sent rare roast beef sandwiches from the Carnegie Deli. The note said that in deference to Peter’s fellow agents, he didn’t order deviled ham.”

     Diana’s face took on an incredulous expression as she watched her boss open his mouth to take a bite of a pizza wedge while gooey cheese cascaded down his fingers. He stopped in mid-chomp when she hurried asked, “Are you actually going to eat that! You don’t know if it’s tainted!”

     “It’s fine.” His answer was less than reassuring to Diana, as the pizza made its way into his mouth.

     Jones took pity on the naive new agent. “Look, Diana, we took precautions the first three times that this happened. The forensic crime lab probed, x-rayed, assayed, and analyzed some primo meals before trashing them. There was never anything in them other than what was supposed to be there.”

     When Diana still looked skeptical, he held up the white bag. “Caffrey sent cannoli pastries for dessert today. If you’re not going to eat anything, I’ve got dibs on yours!”

     Peter finally tried to reassure her. “Diana, this is who Neal is—this is what he does to amuse himself and to foster a connection in this little game of ‘catch me if you can.’ He would never try to harm us; it’s just not his style, and underneath the annoying and felonious exterior, he really has a good heart.”

     The confused female agent knew that she was climbing out on a limb when she finally murmured, “It’s almost as if you seem—I don’t know—‘fond’ of him.” Diana wondered if she was now actually sawing away at that limb and blowing her chance at a spot on this team.

     Peter Burke furrowed his brow and thought carefully before answering. “Neal Caffrey is a lawbreaker—an audacious and shameless thief, forger and con artist. He is also brilliant, talented, and skillful, and has more lives than a cat. He’s a determined survivor who manages to pull off the impossible, so I most definitely respect him as a worthy adversary. I also consider him to be a refreshing change from the raft of ruthless, bone-headed thugs who resort to weapons and chaos to achieve their goals. Nevertheless, in the end, he is still a criminal. At some point, all criminals will finally make a mistake. Eventually Neal will fall, and I intend to be there to catch him.”

     Peter wondered if he had convinced this new probationary agent who seemed to have so much potential. Berrigan was very intelligent, and Peter really liked smart, which is probably why he was “fond” of Neal Caffrey. He pondered what she would say if she knew about Neal’s birthday and anniversary cards that were kept at home in Peter’s specially designated “Caffrey” box.

   Sometimes, the FBI agent would sit on his couch, pull all the miscellaneous items from his cache, and try to understand his nemesis. He regarded the myriad of esoteric objects as pieces of a puzzle that needed to be assembled to see the real picture. His wife chided him for being obsessed and spending far too much time on this one criminal, but he couldn’t help himself. Neal was a challenging enigma—the prize at the end of a scavenger hunt, and these bits and pieces were clues along the way that mocked and teased his pursuer.

     Peter and Neal had an arm’s length relationship. The agent had never actually met the young punk—never had a face-to-face encounter. Well, maybe that wasn’t entirely accurate. Some months before, Peter had been stoned out of his mind on morphine after undergoing surgery to repair a gunshot wound to his shoulder. The perpetrator who was responsible for that had been brought down by Peter’s backup that afternoon, but not before his one wild shot laid Peter low.

     Peter’s perceptions were hazy that day, to put in mildly, but the FBI agent remembered the image of a face staring mutely down at him in his hospital room. Although the figure was togged out in green surgical scrubs, complete with paper hat and face mask, there was no mistaking those Caribbean blue eyes regarding him with what appeared to be worry and concern.

     Later, when Peter was more lucid, he noticed the small prickly little cactus, complete with glued-on plastic googly eyes, sitting placidly atop his bedside table. There was no note that time, but he just knew who had left it. As he stared at the pint-size plant with its plethora of pointy spines, he thought how appropriate that it had come from the very person whom he regarded as the quintessential thorn in his side.


	3. A Heads Up

     It was now June, four months after that prophetic discussion in the van. New York was experiencing an early seasonal warm spell, and denizens and visitors alike flocked to the numerous parks and green spaces in the city. Peter had met Elizabeth down by the river for an impromptu picnic on the grass at lunchtime. When he returned to the FBI building, his blinking office phone indicated a message had been left while he was away.

     Peter listened to the voice of an old colleague whom he had befriended years ago when they were both raw recruits at Quantico. Martin Everett was now the ASAC stationed on the West Coast in San Francisco. The last time that the two had communicated, aside from the yearly Christmas card, was two years ago at an FBI seminar held in Chicago. Now the cryptic message simply asked that Peter call him back ASAP.

     After the pleasantries were exchanged, Everett asked if Peter was still interested in the elusive fugitive, Neal Caffrey.

     “When we met at that FBI conference a while back, I recall that you were really frustrated and vowing to take the young twerp down one day,” Everett reminded his friend.

     Peter heart rate sped up; was he now finally going to hear of a positive lead that might actually pan out?

     “I’m all ears, Marty. What have you got?”

     Everett explained that the San Francisco branch of the FBI had been mired down in an investigation of drug traffickers who smuggled their “wares” into the port on cargo ships. The Chinese triads were behind the tangled web that included extortion, arson, murder, and lethal mayhem, but the members of that cadre, if caught, would rather die than betray one of their own. However, they parceled out their distribution jobs to the locals, and one dumb schmuck had fallen into the FBI’s clutches.

     It was like manna from heaven for the authorities. The guy was a three-time loser and was facing life in prison, which was definitely not a palatable option that he wanted to consider. Ergo, he was scrambling to provide any shred of information that he had ever heard to garner leniency from the Feds. He probably would have accused his mother of shoplifting, if that would have helped.

     “It might be bogus,” Everett warned Peter, “but he swears that he heard that Caffrey was planning on hitting ‘The San Francisco Diamond Exchange’ tomorrow. We talked to the consortium, and they confirmed that they had just received a three million dollar parcel of unset Russian diamonds from De Beers, which they locked securely in their ‘state-of-the-art’ vault. We are going on the assumption that there might be some truth to this tidbit of info about Caffrey, so we are planning an undercover stakeout tomorrow in case he shows. I just wanted to give you a heads up in case you want to be part of the takedown, if it happens. No pressure on your end, Peter; it’s just offered as a professional and personal courtesy, if you’re interested.”

     “I’m definitely interested,” Peter avidly reassured him. “I’ll make plans to be on the next flight out!”

     “Okay, my friend. Just text me your flight data and I’ll arrange to have someone meet you at the airport and escort you to the site. Safe travels!” Everett said as he ended the conversation.

     With a determined effort, Peter managed to procure a seat on an overnight flight out of JFK, with just a brief layover in Denver. He landed early the next morning at San Francisco International. True to his word, Everett had a man waiting at the gate. After they shook hands, the agent informed Peter that there had been an incident.

     “What kind of incident?” Peter asked fearfully.

     “Well, it’s more like a ‘situation’ at this point,” the uncomfortable man finally admitted.

     Peter had dire visions of Caffrey doing his thing, and then some over-eager West Coast yahoo putting a bullet in him during his apprehension.

     “Actually, Caffrey chose to hit the Diamond Exchange before daybreak today, much earlier than we had anticipated,” his escort explained. “I have to admit, it was an impressive piece of work, ‘cause he went through that safe like it was butter. We were just in the process of getting our team in place when it all went down, but we were still able to give chase. We were hot on his tail when he headed north toward Marin Country. You have to cross the Golden Gate Bridge to leave the peninsula that way, so we radioed ahead and had the California Highway Patrol block off that means of egress. We secured the southern end. So now we have him bottled up on the middle of the bridge with no way off.”

     “And?” Peter prodded. “If you have him cornered, why haven’t you just arrested him? He never carries a weapon, so what’s the problem? What is this ‘situation’ that you are talking about?”

     The San Francisco agent cleared his throat and began to fill Peter in regarding the developments. “Well, the last intel that I received was that the fugitive is now standing on a railing about ready to jump. There’s just no way he’ll survive that fall. To date, about 1600 people have found that out the hard way. It’s almost 250 feet from the rail into icy water that is estimated to be more than 370 feet deep at that point. All those poor souls who were determined to end their lives knew that it would be quick—maybe a four second drop at about 75 mph. If the impact trauma didn’t kill them, hypothermia and drowning most certainly would have.”

     Peter just couldn’t comprehend this scenario. This was so not-Caffrey. The young kid seemed to have an exuberant passion for life, and a more than healthy self-esteem derived from his over-the-top skills and talents. Would an unexpected snag in his plans make him seriously contemplate throwing in the towel and prematurely terminating his life? This was definitely not how their chase was supposed to end!

     “I need to be there!” Peter demanded.

     “Do you think that you can talk him down, Agent Burke? I’m sure my boss, Agent Everett, would welcome any help that he could get.”

     “Just get me there!” Peter’s response was firm.


	4. A Fateful Meeting On the Bridge

     Peter was immediately helicoptered to the site, which was now an impressive snarl of stranded vehicles restrained behind a barricade of flashing CHP cars on both sides of the striking suspension bridge. All other small aircraft, such as news and police choppers, were being denied access to the area around the scene of the drama. Nobody wanted to take the chance of spooking the subject on the ledge. Peter stared at the impressive Art Deco modern miracle, erected in 1937, that had become as much a part of San Francisco as the venerable “painted lady” mansions or Fisherman’s Wharf. The thoroughfare had six vehicular lanes, with walkways on both sides. Peter hurriedly jogged towards the middle of the bridge, ironically passing a prominent sign placed on one of the towers. The somber metal placard had a black image of a telephone and the following message:

****

**_Crisis Counseling_ **

**_There is hope_ **

**_Make the call_ **

**_The consequences of jumping from this_ **

**_bridge are fatal and tragic._ **

 

         The FBI agent slowed as he spotted his old adversary, a fragile, wind-swept figure, very, very high above a disastrous ending to a “tragic” fate. He looked so much younger in person than he appeared in those few fleeting photos that authorities around the globe had managed to secure. He was dressed in cat-burglar black with a type of rucksack strapped to his back. Peter assumed it contained the tools of a safecracker’s trade—probably a drill or two and a borescope camera. Peter cautiously stepped around the abandoned silver Audi convertible slewed sideways with the driver’s door hanging open. Taking a deep breath, he commenced with the greatest challenge of his career.

     Caffrey recognized Peter, and warily watched the agent’s approach from the corner of his eye while retaining a taut and rigid posture on the railing.

   “That’s close enough, Agent Burke,” he said when Peter was within ten feet of him.

     “Neal, what are you doing?” Peter called to the young man as if he were a child who was misbehaving instead of a formidable quarry contemplating a fatal escape.

     The con man picked up on the intimate tone in the agent’s voice and seemed a bit surprised by this unexpected attitude from a man whom he had never really met face to face.

     “Oh, I’m just taking in the view,” he finally answered as his head swiveled north towards Sausalito, and the wind tossed sable-brown hair into his eyes. “It’s spectacular from up here, almost like you can see forever.”

     Peter held up his hands in a placating manner as he edged inches closer. “I just want to talk, Neal.”

     Caffrey looked incredulous. “Now, Agent Burke? You want to talk right now? This is really not a good time for us to be shooting the breeze.”

     “Why not,” Peter responded calmly. “Do you have someplace that you have to be?”

     “Seriously? We finally meet and that’s the best that you’ve got?” The fugitive mocked the agent with a sad shake of his head.

     Peter sighed dramatically and played the game that could turn deadly at any minute. “So, what should we talk about, Neal? Would you like to discuss Kierkegaard and his existentialist view on the absurdity and futility of life? Apparently, that seems to be where your headspace is right now.”

     Peter knew this conversation was inane, but he had to keep the guy talking instead of considering a swan dive into San Francisco Bay.

     Neal huffed out a frustrated breath. “Just go away, Agent Burke. Isn’t California a bit out of your jurisdiction? Did crime suddenly take a holiday in New York?”

     “ _Federal Bureau of Investigation_ , Neal, with an emphasis on Federal,” Peter informed him matter-of-factly. “My jurisdiction encompasses the entire United States and its territories. California has been in the Union since 1850, so here I am.”

Peter reminded himself that he had to keep Caffrey’s attention on him, not focused on that ominous drop. At least he had the con man engaged and responding, no matter how ridiculous the subject matter. The worried agent cautiously edged a bit closer to the perilously perched young thief. He was disheartened when Neal reacted by retreating from Peter’s slight advance. He was slowly moving farther away.

     “Stop, Neal, just stop!” Peter forcefully pleaded. “You don’t want to do this and you know it.”

     Neal lifted one eyebrow. “Do you really think that you know me that well, Agent Burke?”

     “I know you well enough to realize that what you are contemplating is not a fitting finale to your story. You have always been about style and finesse, Neal, and you’ve been a tenacious survivor. This is a coward’s way out, and I never thought that you lacked guts, but maybe I was wrong. Did you manage to con me just like you have conned all your other marks?”

     As soon as he said this, Peter wished those words back. Had he just pushed a hot button that would literally succeed in pushing Neal over the edge? The FBI agent knew that he was out of his depth and failing miserably.

     Neal, however, just cocked his head to the side and smiled. “I think sailing off into the clouds would be a stupendous ending to this little drama.”

     As an afterthought, the con man added, “I sincerely hope that you never decide to volunteer your services at a Suicide Hotline, Agent Burke. Your ‘compassionate’ technique definitely needs work.”

     Steadying his nerves, Peter was determined to make up for some of the ground that he had lost.

     “Look, Neal. Getting caught is not the end of the world. You’re young with your whole life in front of you. We’ve only got hard evidence on the bond forgery, and I could go to bat for you at your trial and be a character witness. Maybe we could even mitigate what you have done today. You’ve never used a weapon, never physically threatened, or harmed anyone. That would be in your favor, and I would make sure that the judge knew it. You might have to do a few years, but then you could start out fresh with a clean slate.”

     When Neal looked skeptical, Peter pushed on. “Neal, I want to arrest you, not bury you. Please come down.”

     “With either outcome, you will have gotten your man, Agent Burke. Why does it make a difference to you?”

     Peter took a deep breath and said what was in his heart. “Because I care about you Neal.”

     Neal had stopped scanning the horizon moments before. Now he was completely focused on staring down into the treacherous depths of the roiling water below him. However, Peter’s unexpected words caused him to whip his head up quickly. The surprising revelation had him gazing at the FBI agent with a puzzled expression, but then, slowly, the confusion morphed into a soft smile that transformed his handsome face.

     “That’s good to know, _Peter_.”

     A second later, hands released their grip on the bridge’s support cables, and the lithe young man spread his arms wide and pushed off into the void without another word.

     “NEAL!” Peter screamed, frantically covering the distance that had separated them as if he could somehow grab onto the con man before he disappeared into oblivion.


	5. Spread Your Wings and Soar

     Peter couldn’t help himself; he had to watch the horrible aftermath of the leap. He expected to see a figure plummeting to certain death, so what he did see didn’t immediately register in his frantic brain. When he got his wits about him, the spectacle that he witnessed was astonishing and unexpected, to say the least.

     An accordion-pleated, black and white cloth had billowed out behind Caffrey almost instantly after he jumped. The open sail was now suddenly caught up in the thermals, enabling the dangling figure to waft slowly across the sky. His only companions were marine gulls who swooped near to investigate this strange invasion of their normal stomping ground. Using hand-held guide wires, the fugitive was maneuvering his graceful descent downward to where a small watercraft temporarily idled in the choppy waves. With precise agility, Caffrey floated over the slim boat, finally landing smoothly into the adjacent seat next to the pilot. The para-sail was quickly discarded, and the unusual vessel immediately roared into action, its bow lifting out of the water as it raced off northward.

     Peter felt a hand on his shoulder and found himself looking at Marty Everett who had binoculars trained on the scene below.

     “I know my watercraft, Peter, and that little beauty is a 50 foot Marauder GT cigarette boat. That baby has a 1550 horsepower engine and can easily top 135 miles per hour when she runs full out. I’ll notify the Harbor Patrol, but it’s extremely doubtful that they will be able to catch them. It looks like they may be headed to Sausalito, which has a large yacht basin and marina. My guess is that they’ll ditch the boat there and make a getaway by car.”

     Peter slid down to sit on the sidewalk. His legs felt rubbery and his heart was still racing from the adrenalin rush. Everett spoke into his phone, and then joined his friend.

     “You know, Peter, you claimed that this dude was impressive, and you were definitely not exaggerating. This little BASE jumping stunt is one for the historians to add to the Golden Gate archives. Nobody has ever tried this unique approach before, so Caffrey has absolutely secured a lock on this daring escapade.”

   Peter gave a snort and a wry expression crossed his face. “Well, his ego certainly doesn’t need any more stroking, but yeah,” he said with a grin, “that really was astounding! Don’t ever repeat this, especially not to my superiors, but I’m glad that he got away. It sure beats the hell out of the other alternative.”

     “Well, my friend,” the California agent replied, “I’ll deny my words as well, but I’m also relieved that we didn’t have to fish a broken body out of the drink. Sparkling little gems are not worth a young life. He’ll live to fight another day, and you’ll be waiting, Peter. I know how dogged you are, so I have no doubt that you will catch him. It’s only a matter of time.”

     Peter eventually filed a report in the San Francisco field office and was dropped off at the airport for the return flight to New York. While he awaited his boarding call, he telephoned El.

     “Were you finally able to capture Neal Caffrey?” She asked hopefully when she heard his voice.

     “No, Hon, he got away just like all the other times,” Peter informed her.

     “Oh, Peter! I’m so sorry. I know that you must be disappointed,” she tried to console him.

     However, Elizabeth knew her soulmate very well. She now somehow sensed something bewildering in her husband’s tone. He should have sounded frustrated, but what she heard wasn’t angry or disgruntled. In fact, she thought that she detected an unexpected contented resignation. He almost sounded grateful and pleased.

     “Peter, what’s going on?” she asked tentatively.

     “Well, Hon,” he began fondly, “it’s certainly not the outcome that I was hoping for, but it’s definitely better than the one that I envisioned today. I love you and I’ll be home soon. I have a story to tell you that you just won’t believe!”


End file.
